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  • Writer's pictureShana Ritter

Time, Memory and Alzheimer’s

The day after the full blood super moon eclipse is a Monday. It is a cloudy somewhat dreary morning in early autumn. Everything looks dry even after the misty rain that obscured the sky for a long while last night. It cleared enough to watch the moon turn that reddish tone as it disappeared curve by curve into shadow. The way

Time, that most illusive of dimensions that casts shadow on everything, elucidating some moments and erases others, changing shape and color, tone and light. I am one of those people who when I remember an incident I can hear, touch, see the place of it; the texture of light, the scent in the room, the way the air felt on my skin. Memory is a room I can choose to enter or not, a place where partially opened doors and windows let in that dusty light full of small shining particles of scent and sound.

But as I watch the progression of Alzheimer’s in my brother’s life, I watch the rooms of memory tip, the floors slide, the windows change shape, the doors open and close. The dimensionality of the day changes, then the week, and then everything looses perspective until it’s all shadow with only glimpses of light. How easily the sense of where we belong can slip away.

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